Desperate Times. Desperate Measures.

I have no relation to Bert, the comedian whose clip is above. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know anything about him. But I’m pretty sure he is The Son’s spirit animal.

The Son, as I’ve mentioned, is home for the summer. People. My electric bill last month was double what it normally is. My water bill has doubled. Local grocery stores are about to issue ration cards to me. His car (dear God, the car) is still not running. Today, I was doing laundry and had to wait to re-enter the laundry room because he, in his underwear and nothing else, had to get his clothes. From a basket. In the laundry room. Where they have been for six days. Where he just gets what he needs at that moment. And then he leaves the basket in the laundry room: my laundry room is a small one person operation. But still, all the more reason to take both the basket containing the clean laundry and the basket which contains his linens from his dorm room (which likely includes the body fluids of a number of lovely young women of questionable judgement) and have yet to be washed. Friends, it’s been seven weeks. SEVEN WEEKS and he hasn’t washed the linens which are in the basket in my one person laundry room. I can’t.

Now, I get it, he’s a guy and guys like to walk around in their underwear and little else. However, his father rarely leaves our bedroom without a shirt on, let alone goes strolling freely about in someone else’s home (where he doesn’t pay rent). We never let him do it when he was a kid, but now that he’s 20 . . . little shithead.

I’m at the point now that I don’t even have the fortitude to request change from him. I could demand better behavior, but that would subject me to a dissertation on the federal government’s attempts to control women of childbearing age by spiking the water supply with racially discriminating fertility drugs in order to better fortify pharmaceutical sales and productivity as a bolster to freeing the dwindling populous of wild horses on the shores of the Salt River in Arizona. If it ain’t one conspiracy theory, it’s another, dude.

I’s tired, Boss. Powful tired.

Among the hottest of commodities in this house is ice. No lie. My ice maker is, like a Jackson Browne song, Running on Empty. Every time I push the lever with my cup, the fridge laughs hysterically at me. I’m so. Fucking. Thirsty.

I’m so thirsty, that I’ve taken to filling half a stainless steel cup with water in the early hours of the day and putting it in the freezer so I can have a cold beverage later. Because, you know, if I don’t, it’s Sahara City, sweetheart.

Ztrahstuiteh, bitches.

 

 

 

En Fuego

When I started blogging again, I didn’t want it to all be me harping and being negative, but don’t we always have the best of intentions?

The Daughter’s car burned down. I suppose I could say the whole thing went up in flames, but that would be a lie. It was just everything from the front seats forward. And then the backseat area just had melted fabric falling off the seats and the headliner. No big deal, right?

Well, she didn’t have the insurance necessary to cover the cost. And the car is financed. In her father’s name. Of course. So, now we wait for the all the various parties to conduct their investigations and determine the cause of the fire.

I suppose it is too much to cross my fingers and toes and hope that the manufacturer finds a defect and assumes financial responsibility and offers restitution. But, that’s what I am hoping for. I honestly need this to happen.

Until then, I have once again resumed my taxi services. And, I’m not too happy about it.

But, here are the good parts~ she and her friend, a passenger at the time of the unfortunate event, were both able to get out of the car safely. She has gap coverage, so that will likely pay something on the debt. She was able to pull off at a rest stop when her car began to malfunction. Fire crews arrived to the scene within a few quick moments because she was able to identify exactly where she was as soon as the 9-1-1 operator answered her call. All travelers on the highway at the time of the fire were able to safely get where they needed to be. We haven’t killed her yet.

It’s the little things. Right?

I Get Sh*t Done

I just do. It’s almost a mantra for me.

The Daughter came home last night speaking about her world and her little friend, I’ll call her Whackadoozy, whom she’s known for about five years. Whackadoozy has been in a very off-putting relationship with someone who will be holding a license in the medical field purdy soon (be scared, be very scared).

It would seem now that we’ve finally come to Splitsville, but only by God’s grace.

Her insignificant sociopath ex-live-in boyfriend has left town and informed her that she needs to move out. The Daughter has offered her help in the extraction of Whackadoozy’s personal items from the abode. That’s because somehow, apparently mothering abilities have rubbed off on her. Let’s hope that’s as far as the motherhood goes for now. Please?

What did I do? I volunteered to help on what will otherwise be an exceptionally busy day for me. I gave them two hours. And, it’s on the verge of searingly hot out. Shit.

Perhaps there shall be an update later.

I’m Back, But I’m Hiding

I’ve blogged for ages. Sometimes I need it. Sometimes I need a laugh. Sometimes the two collide and, well, that’s how I roll.

I’ve been seeking something therapeutic for myself, in addition to the other therapies in which I love to indulge. Sometimes, I need that decadence… when everyone else needs to fade, even if it is just for a second.

I’m the glue. And, I know I’m not alone. That’s my job. I do what everyone needs. I’m the event coordinator for this family, which gets a little old. Funny enough, it fed me for years. As long as I was needed by my people, I was good to go. Today, I feel like I’m trapped on a Tilt-A-Whirl and no matter how hard I scream, the friggin’ carnie can’t hear me begging to get off the ride. Dude, I’m gonna puke.

I was an empty nester. And I wasn’t one of those empty nesters who bemoans the empty nest and wonders what to do with her time. I embraced that shit. Because, who doesn’t enjoy a job well done? It was my reward. I was a young mom. It was my identity, but not so much that I lost who I was in the Motherhood. I was *THE* team mom. I was the support person. I drove the kids, all the kids, everyone’s kids everywhere. I bought the posterboard. I baked the cupcakes (and I hate cupcakes with a fervor as flaming hot as anything, unless someone makes them for me, in which case, give me a damned cupcake and then back away). I cleaned and cooked. I waited in bleachers in the rain, the cold, and the fother mucking wind for years, all the while suffering from the numbing I like to call Bleacher Ass. I took kids to the mall and tried to disappear so as not to damage their precious little psyches should they catch a glimpse of the horror that is their mother. I counseled my kids. I counseled the kids of others. I listened to a lot of damned syllables. So many syllables. And when the time came, I was excited about hanging all that up.

That lasted a year. One.

Then, bad fortune struck the eldest and we had ourselves a Boomerang Baby. No physical harm was done, but it really was the perfect storm of Holy Crap. I thought I had equipped her. And, I had. Maybe. But, that bedroom down the hall seemed so undeniably cozy and then, she asked. Like idiots, we said it was okay. Even the moving was insanity. It couldn’t be simple. But, we all worked out a map to success and I was hopeful. I need to remind you here, I’m a moron.

That map was lost, washed away in a flood, and used as toilet paper.

I thought it was still okay.

SIX AND A HALF MONTHS LATER and a handful of bills which we paid that weren’t ours, we are still waiting. Slowly, there are teensy glimmers of success on her scorecard. Maybe she’ll get it this time around. Until then, I remind myself to breathe.

We were silly to think that was the real challenge.

Numero Dos moved back home-ish for the summer bringing his baggage. His problem? He’s a genius. Don’t laugh. He’s so smart, Life regularly kicks his ass. Because he is so stuck in thinking that actually acting on anything is incomprehensible. There is no little little thing in his world (and consequently, mine). Each thing is Goliath. The failure to understand how enacting a plan of action leads to success down the road is much too much and must be tantrummed to all unholy Hell. Satan be damned when everything that once was manageable becomes a tragedy of unparalleled proportion requiring the gnashing of teeth and the tearing of clothes. Literally.

At least twice a day I grab my planner and count days. Because, you know, I can do anything if I can just know how long I have to do it.

Working from home for the last twelve years was amazing for me. I was the mistress of my own destiny; I was Queen Mom, Superwife, and I made some good money while I contemplated whether I would shower that day or not. I still love working from home, until my home is spilling over with adults who need to embark upon their own successes and leave me to reassemble my heavenly haven.

I’m not cooking dinner tonight. Just deal with it.